


Can We Rest?

by strawberrykait



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-10-02
Updated: 2002-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrykait/pseuds/strawberrykait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 7, "Beneath You", how the episode *should* have ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can We Rest?

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: BTVS and all associations are the intellectual property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Pictures, etc. Used without permission. Any derivative works (whether fiction/art/etc) based on the plot, original characters, etc. of this story is considered infringement of my intellectual property rights without my explicit permission.

He turned back away from her, not caring to see her; not caring is she could see. It was too much, all the things he told her – things jumbled in his mind, spilling from his lips and tumbling into hers. She felt almost as demented as he. And still he rambled, quietly now.

"And she shall look on him with forgiveness … and everybody will forgive and love … he will be loved …"

Never had Buffy been more afraid of Spike – was this even Spike anymore? Angel had been crazy, a savage, when he came back from Hell. But when his soul was restored … she knew nothing about that, only that years were spent in brutal solitary and still he was not well. Decades upon decades Angel suffered alone, then more so with his kind, trying to balance the soul with the demon. She had no idea what that was like for him or how he possibly survived it.

And now this.

Spike stood before the Holy cross, barely whispering his oddities. His gleaming back bore no marks of mutilation, self inflicted or otherwise. What moonlight shone in exposed him for the broken man he was. The tears she shed were unbidden, shed in fear and horror. And anguish.

"So everything's okay, right?"

Nothing between them had ever been 'okay' and never could be. He left for God knows where and found his soul, he said for her. Angel never did that. He'd had his long before she was ever born and had not wanted it to begin with. His was a curse, a punishment; forced atonement for generations of sins.

Spike's was of his own volition, to be what he believed she deserved. Deliberately he endured the restoration and it obviously was killing him, slowly, piece by piece falling away until it devoured him completely. He did it for her; he did it for love.

"Can – can we rest now?" Spike limply hung upon the cross, his skin beginning to singe and smoke as the instrument of God rejected him as unholy. To bear a soul, the gift God gave to man that separated him from the beasts, the demons and angels, and yet still be deemed unworthy.

"Buffy … can we rest?"

Her mouth gone dry, Buffy found no words to form, hardly even sounds. Her eyes continued to cry for all her confusion, knowing nothing else to do but weep and watch as Spike remained hanging and burning – a willing sacrifice. Again.

Aghast, she quickly turned away, ready to walk through those heavy doors, forget what she'd learned and continue to live off her hate and disgust for such a lowly creature as he was – a demon unworthy of love, a monster, soulless. She turned back, eyes frightfully wide, mouth agape as though she finally understood. Suddenly he was before her, within arms distance, she having come to him at last. Gently and with great trepidation, her trembling hand reached out.

The faintest touch of her fingertips jolted Spike's body, making him cling to the cross in desperation. The curling smoke, the smell of sizzling flesh turned her heaving stomach and Buffy grasped his shoulder, tugging him away. Instantly he latched onto her, holding her just as desperately, as any sinner, crying as freely as she was.

Together they crumbled to the dusty chapel floor, clutching each other in misery. Instinctively her quaking hands cradled his trembling body to her own, one cupping his head towards her shoulder, the other soothingly rubbing circles against the breadth of his back. His sobs were broken by pants and fractured words.

"Tried to – but no, never would — "

"Spike … shh," was all her throat would allow to pass. Too much to ingest, so easy to either deny or give in to it all. She couldn't afford to do either. She had to go on, so that one of them could live. His clutch lessened as he relaxed, the strain proving too much for even himself. "Just rest, Spike."


End file.
